Heard Every Word
by The Perfect Drain
Summary: Oliver Wood asks Percy to go to a Quidditch match. Easier than it sounds.


Heard Every Word

.

It's not as if Quidditch has any value aside from physical exercise, anyway.

I said that to Oliver once, and he gaped at me for a full two minutes before managing to string his arguments together in a logical order.  I was then forced to listen to him as he extolled the numerous virtues of the game.  I must admit, he knew precisely which positive facts to mention to me.  To try to win me over to his point of view.

According to Oliver, Quidditch is more than exercise.  It encourages teamwork and leadership skills, and challenges the mind just as much as the body.  He then proceeded to detail the different acts and logical leaps required for playing the game, while I smiled and nodded politely.  

Something that few realize is that Oliver loves to _explain to people.  Even more than I do, in fact.  Whether it's Quidditch or a difficult problem he's finally managed to solve, he'll describe it easily (and sometimes in great detail).  A great difference between the two of us is when Oliver talks, people listen.  Well, at least for the most part._

When he was finally done, he flung himself on my bed and swore he would get me to go to a Quidditch game "if it was the last thing he did."

That is another thing I should not have mentioned to Oliver.  He was astonished when I told him I'd never actually been to a game of Quidditch.  

You see, all of my brothers were Quidditch fanatics.  They would often spend hours outside on rickety old broomsticks, shouting and, well, generally disturbing the peace.  They, like Oliver, could not understand why the game held no appeal for me.  During the few actual games I was forced to attend, I just read my books and ignored what was happening around me.

It wasn't so much the sport itself as the fuss that was made over it.  I could not understand why people found it so endlessly interesting.  Someone who doesn't like Quidditch is, according to most people, a prime candidate for St. Mungo's.  But I cannot blame all of it on my disgust.  I was also rebelling in the only way I dared – **not liking Quidditch, especially on a house full of people like my siblings, was classed only slightly under a death wish.  I was immensely pleased with the many varied reactions I got when I mentioned my dislike.  They ranged from shock to anger, from shock to confusion, from shock… the point has been made.**

In all my years at Hogwarts, I've kept well away from Quidditch.  (As much as one can with the Gryffindor team captain for a roommate.)  I heard about it, of course.  It's impossible not to.  Hogwarts is practically centred on the sport.  Therefore, I usually had a rough idea of what went on in the matches.

Oddly enough, I would almost never hear of it from Oliver.  He was strangely considerate of my preferences, and only talked about Quidditch if I mentioned it in conversation first.  

I didn't need to ask him how the matches against Gryffindor went, anyway, and not just because the whole common room would begin bubbling about it shortly afterwards.  I could tell it from his face.

It wasn't a simple matter of whether he looked pleased or depressed, although it started out as that.  After a while, I could tell – just from Oliver's entrance into our dorm room after the match – who the match was against, how it went, and if we won.  It was in his walk, his posture, his expression… It was remarkably easy to discern.

The one exception to the rule: After matches against the Hufflepuffs, regardless of whether we won or lost, Oliver always looked rather bemused.

I mentioned the phenomenon to Oliver once, and he laughed.  He then claimed he could figure out "whether or not you'd aced that History of Magic quiz, you arse," in much the same manner.  I was never entirely sure if he was telling the truth.  

From then on, in any case, we would both try to guess what the other was thinking or feeling solely from body language.  With a few exceptions in the beginning, we were mostly correct, and we soon only occasionally resorted to speech to get our rough ideas across.

It may seem an utterly useless system, considering all we had to do was ask simple questions of each other to get the answers we wanted.  However, it is now the primary way Oliver and I communicate.  

Not only that, we treat each other as puzzles, always trying to figure out what makes the other tick.  Asking questions is too easy.  Impractical as well, if the person isn't sure what the answers are, Oliver noted once.

We've never attempted to verify the answers we think we've found.  We just know.  Just as we "just know" so many other things.  

But now, nearing the end of our time at Hogwarts, Oliver seems content to break with our tradition of silence.

"Will you go to the match tomorrow?" he says.  

"The… you mean the Quidditch game?  Oliver, I would have thought you had learned by now…"

Oliver winces.  "Well, yeah, but.  It's the last chance for the Cup, you see.  Surely you've noticed how stressed I've been over it."

I'd noticed.  Sometimes Oliver has a more than unhealthy obsession with the game.  Toss in his last chance to win the House Cup, and you have a very unbalanced and emotional Quidditch captain.  I doubt anyone dares to mention it to him.

"And anyway," Oliver continued.  "I said I'd get you to a game if it were the last thing I did, right?  Well… I'd like it to be one of the last things I do at Hogwarts."  He seemed way too perky for his own good.  

"Hmph," I grunt.  I'm not called "that laid-back, easy-going Weasley" for a _reason, after all._

Oliver glares at me and sits down on my desk.  On top of my research paper for Potions.

"Oliver."

He blinks at me innocently.

"Oliver, I would rather not have to explain to Professor Snape exactly _why I had to bring in my list of basic ingredients printed on the rear of a pair of Quidditch shorts," I warn._

"Oh.  Right," he says, sounding surprised.  I cock my eyebrow at him and he squirms off the parchment, only smudging the ink slightly.  "Seriously, Perce," Oliver continues.  "It'd mean a lot to me.  And who knows, you may even find you like the game."

He knows perfectly well that is the main reason I refuse to go.  Just as he knows I'll give in and go to the idiotic thing, simply because "it would mean a lot to him."  

I think I almost prefer our original method of communicating.

"You know I don't care for Quidditch.  You've known since second year.  Why must I come to this 'pivotal' match, when I haven't come to any others?" I retort, simply because it has to be said.

Oliver rolls his eyes, but too late, I realize I've hurt him.  "Because it's pivotal, or for me at least… and I sort of wanted you to be there.  Nevermind," he shrugs, and walks over to his trunk, starting to fiddle with the lock.  I doubt he actually has any particular task to achieve once he gets the lock open.  

I let out a small sigh.  I should have known to watch what I said.  _He should know I'm incredibly lacking in this area.  He should know that I __will go, and only because he asked me.  _

Shouldn't he?  

"Oliver…"

"Really, Percy, nevermind.  You don't have to go, I'm sorry I gave you a guilt-trip."

"Oliver, I'll go.  I promise to loathe the entire experience.  I'll loathe you as well, for making me go, but that's to be expected, eh?"  I smile slightly, drumming my quill on the table.  Attempted humor in a volatile situation… oh, let it work.

He laughs, shoulders relaxing slightly.  Ah, there.  It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.  Being comforting and reassuring didn't come with my job description, unfortunately.  

"Thanks, Perce.  You know I loathe you, too."

I know.

Just as I know by Oliver's face, when he finally turns to smile at me, that he is going to win.

.

End.

Author's Note.  I was just once again struck by the sweet scene in PoA where Percy was cheering (for Gryffindor? for Oliver?) at the last Quidditch match.  (Excuse me while I go aww.  Awww.  Okay, moving on.)  Then there's the World Whatchamacallit Quidditch game in GoF (My interest in any sort of sport is normally akin to Percy's in this fic, please excuse me my memory) … where Percy spends most of the game just eagerly tripping over himself in order to impress his boss.  

Basically, from making a happy and excited fool of himself to just being a misguided fool.  So then I started contemplating the leap between that and that, and how tragic it was.  Then I wrote this, which may or may not tie in at all.  It was an idea, okay?  Jeez.  But it kind of makes it a three step transition.  Wow, look at my ego expanding.  Quick, someone give me a bad review… ;)

Oh, and this story may or may not be slashy.  I always tend to go for the slash, but after I wrote it, I realized it's quite ambiguous… so whichever.

So, anyway.  Bad sign when the author's note starts to get as long as the fic.

- tpd


End file.
